Jillian Hart - Stetsons, Spring and Wedding Rings

She gladly left the room and bustled into the kitchen, ready to help with the rest of the meal preparations. It wasn’t disappointment eking into her like frost in the night. She wouldn’t let it be.

Joseph couldn’t get over his shock. As he blew on his tea to cool it, his mother’s words taunted him. “After all the letters I wrote to her mother, you’d think the woman would have shown more courtesy. That poor girl, with a mother like that! I’m sure Clara will suit us just fine.”

So that’s what all the writing and mailing of letters was about. A slight wind could blow him over. Stunned, he retreated to the sofa and settled on a cushion, stretched out his feet and took a swallow of hot tea.

“Seems like a girl in need,” Pa said as he set down his paper with a crinkle. “I noticed three patches on her dress, and I was hardly looking.”

“That’s why I hired her on the spot, the poor dear. I didn’t even check her references.” Ma took up her embroidery hoop from her lap and began to stitch. “Can you believe she came the entire way by herself? And just eighteen years old.”

“A shame she has no one to look out for her.” Pa shook his head from side to side. “You did right in hiring her. She has an honest look. She’ll do fine.”

“I think so, too. She makes an excellent pot of tea.” Ma squinted at her needlework, fussing with thread and needle before fastening her all-seeing gaze on him. “You will behave yourself, Joseph? Don’t think I didn’t notice you speaking alone with her.”

“I will be nothing but a gentleman.” His vow was a sincere one, but he wasn’t sure if he had masked the disappointment weighing on him. Gosh, but he had been sure Clara had come to marry him. Well, the joke was on him. He had leaped to the wrong conclusions—him, and no one else.

“I hope you didn’t leave my package in the barn again.” Ma glanced up at him, censure still on her face, but a smile, too. “I have need of the embroidery thread I ordered.”

His ma was a softy. Which was good luck for him. “I’ll go fetch it from the kitchen. I—”

“No need.” Clara’s melodic voice surprised him. She padded nearly soundlessly into the room and set the small box on the table next to Ma’s chair. Her skirts swirled at her ankles as she turned neatly. “Your cook said supper is ready for the table.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Clara.” Ma’s needle dove through the fabric. “We’ll be right along. Joseph, go—”

He knew that his mother was speaking to him, but could he make his ears work? No. They had seemed to malfunction right along with his eyes. His every sense felt harnessed to Clara as she waltzed from the room. The rustle of her petticoats, the lamplight turning her hair to spun gold, the remembered feeling of her in his arms and protecting her from the brunt of the arctic winds. He knew her skin smelled like freshly budding roses.

“Joseph!” Ma’s admonishment was pure warning. “What did I say about that poor girl?”

“My thoughts were gentlemanly, Ma. Honest.” Gee, a guy couldn’t win. Was it his fault he was already sweet on her? He pushed off the sofa. “What did you want me to do?”

“Go fetch your brother. He’s in the library.”

“Figures.” When he was in the house, Gabriel was hardly ever anywhere else. Joseph strode from the room, just as his father muttered, “Five patches, Mary. That girl is in hard straits.”

Why hadn’t he noticed the patches? And why was it bothering him? He couldn’t accept that Clara wasn’t meant for him. The steely devotion in his heart was real. The lightness he felt from her smile was no fabrication. Instead of heading down the hall, he back-trailed and pushed open the kitchen door. The clatter of pots and the clink of dishes met him, along with a lot of steam as the cook poured the water off a kettle of boiling potatoes.

“Hurry, girl!” Mrs. O’Neill, the cook, screeched. “I’ll not get blamed if the potatoes are mealy!”

“Yes’m.” Clara was a flash of pink as she raced toward the basin with a bowl for the potatoes.

He let the door swing closed. He doubted she’d noticed him. Doubted she would appreciate an interruption. Pa was right. Judging by the look of things, she needed the work. He remembered how anxious she’d been when she’d asked about his mother and the letters of application. It all made sense now as he trekked down the hallway. Maybe he had imagined Clara’s sweet interest in him right along with everything else.

His knees went weak, and he grabbed the wall for support. His senses, attuned to her, made out the pad of her nearby gait. Probably carrying the potatoes to the dining room. More footsteps joined her. The other maid and the chef’s assistant, both hurrying.

Maybe now was as good a time as any to pull her aside. He poked his head around the doorway. The sight of willowy Clara placing a second bowl on the table next to the steaming potatoes made the devotion residing within him double. Yes, there were tidy patches on her dress made of the same fabric, and the cuffs of her sleeves were threadbare and the edge of her collar starting to fray. He could see that now.

But there was something else. Something he could not deny. He had never seen a lovelier sight. She stuck a serving spoon into the bowl, positioning it just right. Lamplight framed her like a blessing, and his heart gave one final, slow thump before it tumbled out of his chest, falling endlessly.

She was the one. He wanted to earn her love. He wanted to be the man who took care of and provided for her, who made her smile all the day long. And as for other things he wanted to do with her, well, that made him blush. As he’d promised his mother, he would be a gentleman. And he would, even in his thoughts. But that didn’t stop his blood from heating or the tenderness from doubling within his soul.

Clara whirled on her heels to return to the kitchen, but she must have sensed his presence. Her eyes went wide and her rose-pink mouth shaped into a surprised O. High color swept across her porcelain features. Was she angry with him? Could she somehow know what he’d been thinking—or, rather, trying not to think? Dark nights spent together, tucked cozily beneath the bedclothes, peeling off her nightgown and leaving a trail of kisses—

Hell, that is not gentlemanly, Joe. He squared his shoulders, drawing himself up straight. He could control his thoughts better than that, right? He focused on her pale face, weary with exhausting travel. She appeared vulnerable and more fragile than he’d realized. He wanted to brush a stray curl behind her ear and gather her in his arms. She was a mere slip of a woman, petite and frail-boned, and he tried not to notice her lush womanly curves. Gosh, it wasn’t easy to stay mannerly when it came to her.

“Perhaps we could talk.” She broke the silence, circling around the table with a swish of her skirts. “I think it would be best to clear the air between us.”

“Gee, that doesn’t sound good for me.”

“No, and I’m sorry for it.” As she waltzed nearer, he spotted the tremble of her chin, and her hands, terribly small when compared to his, clenched into fists.

Perhaps she had been able to sense the direction his earlier thoughts had been taking. Embarrassed, heat stretched tight across his face and he let his chin sink a notch. He couldn’t say he didn’t notice the gentle curve of her neck, lovely and elegant, and the rise of her bosom which was deeply fascinating, or the tiny cinch of her waist—

“Joseph, I know what you’re thinking.” Her hushed alto caressed over him, as if with understanding and not censure.

“I doubt it.” If she did, she wouldn’t be so calm. He fought the urge to reach out and stroke his thumb along the satin of her cheek.